


There

by AnnaFan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, First Time, Marriage of Convenience, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:30:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1788958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow up to QueefQueens's <em>Kiss Me</em> (written with kind permission).</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> AU – Éomer fell at the Black Gate and Éowyn is now queen of Rohan. To avoid her nobles manoeuvring her into marrying one of their own who would then become the power behind the throne, Éowyn proposes to Faramir instead – choosing him over the sons of Imrahil on the grounds that he's “easy on the eye and almost certainly has some affection for her.” But traumatised by Grima Wormtongue's pursuit of her, she asks six months before the marriage is consummated.</p><p> <br/><em>The war has cost Rohan two kings and one prince – I only ask for one steward in return.<em></em></em><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	There

The younger son of Denethor looked at his bride, perched on the edge of their marital bed, clad in a fine, almost transparent shift. Not for the first time in the six months between that surreal afternoon on the walls of Minas Tirith and this, his... no, their... wedding night, he wondered how the hell his life had gone so wrong. It wasn't that his wife wasn't beautiful or desirable – quite the contrary. His blood quickened at the sight of her. But his head... well, his head couldn't but notice that she looked frankly terrified. And his heart still harboured that wrenching, empty feeling.

Unlike his brother, who had had a straightforward, lusty attitude to the opposite sex, he, immersed in Elven poetry through his formative years, had dreamed of finding the Luthien to his Beren. Aware of the writings of his Numenorean forebearers, he had sought to model his behaviour on that prescribed in the _Laws and Customs of the Eldar_. However, being human, he had on occasion fallen short of this ideal. Even so, by the standards of most of his peers, he remained somewhat inexperienced, and was certainly nothing like the womaniser his brother, admirable in many respects, had been.

One thing was sure: even in his wildest imaginings, he had never dreamed of finding himself the hastily chosen, politically pragmatic choice of consort of a Queen more renowned for her prowess on the battlefield than her coquettishness in the ballroom. There was perhaps some small measure of comfort to be found: back on that fateful day, she had spoken of respect and admiration, and expressed a hope that over time they could come to love one another. He realised now that hope had been what stopped him bolting for the furthest reaches of Ithilien when, with her return to the Mark, he had realised the full gravity of the situation to which he had committed himself. But now, that hope seemed a tenuous one at best. Furthermore, looking at her, he realised he was not the only one struggling not to bolt. He recalled another conversation they had had, the first one when they had been alone together. She had intimated to him that there were reasons from her time in Meduseld which had left her frightened of the thought of the marriage bed. It had taken a great deal of time, and the full range of his not inconsiderable diplomatic skills to piece together the story from what little his King was prepared to say on the matter, but he had eventually put together a picture of the traitor in the midst of the court who stalked her every move, and who expected to gain her as a spoil of war. Small wonder she was terrified of the marriage bed.

And now he found himself alone with her, the weight of expectation heavy on his shoulders. He wished that the six months leading up to this day could have been spent wooing her slowly and patiently, overcoming her fears, letting her come to trust him. Instead, they were pitched straight into their wedding night. She had made a comment back in Minas Tirith about the barbarism of the Gondorian custom of hanging the bloodied sheets from the window. He found the custom in the Mark, whereby her kin (or, given the demise of all her close kin, the highest ranking lords in the land) were to find them naked the next morning equally barbaric.

Suppressing a sigh, he filled two goblets with wine and took them over, sitting beside her at what he hoped was a respectful distance.

“We do not have to do anything tonight if you do not wish to,” he said, hesitantly. “Nor any night.”

“No, at some point the marriage must be consummated,” she said, brusquely. His first reaction was to feel his hackles rise at her words, but then he caught sight of her face, half turned from him. It seemed to him that he sensed tension and fear hiding beneath the business-like tone. He saw her swallow, before she continued, her voice a little softer. “Besides which, at some point you must get me with child. No, it must be done, and having steeled myself to the task, better sooner than later.” Again, the stark pragmatism of her words was at odds with the overly bright glistening of her eyes. She seemed to be holding back tears only by an act of will.

Faramir felt his heart sink. She was so reluctant he was far from sure he would be able to rise to the occasion – he was no rapist, and a woman who wanted him so little... And yet, he realised to his shame, he did want her – but not on these terms. Wanted her, but also wanted to care for her, to have her trust him, maybe even like him a bit. Six months earlier he had been bowled over by her beauty and bravery. To that he now added the curious feelings, almost contradictory, of both awe and protectiveness, the first occasioned by her steely determination to do what was best for her country, the second by the profound sadness which seemed to underlie that steel. He also found that he harboured a growing admiration for her intelligence and political acumen. But at the moment, all these confusing and conflicting emotions were of secondary importance. Uppermost was a desperate need not to hurt her when she looked so vulnerable.

His train of thought was interrupted when she reached out one of her white hands and took the goblet.

“Thank you. I think this will help.”

Between them, they ended up drinking all of the wine. Given the circumstances, neither became merry, though Faramir did feel the world had taken on a strangely fuzzy quality, and he could see a glazed look in Éowyn's eyes which suggested to him that she was in a similar state. Still, he could not bring himself to make a move, and was surprised when she took the initiative. Kissing him clumsily, her hands moved to the ties on his breeches.

It seemed the work of a few moments before he found himself above her, trying as best he could to be gentle and set her at ease.  But Faramir found himself suffering from an awkwardness that he had not felt since his callow youth, and cursed himself for his ineptitude. She winced slightly as he eased himself inside, and he felt a stab of regret, pausing for a moment and taking his weight on his elbows.

“Think not of it,” she said softly. “I have taken worse hurt sparring on the training grounds.”

He wondered at the workings of her mind, that she would liken this night of all nights to a battle. Now enclosed within her warmth, all should have been well. But he was consumed by guilt at the thought that he brought her pain, and that, much as she might demand it as her marital right, she did not actually want this act. He tried to set a gentle rhythm, hoping to spur himself to completion and get the act out of the way, but found that, far from bringing pleasure, the movements chafed uncomfortably. The longer he continued, the less hope he entertained of reaching his goal. Eventually, inwardly admitting defeat, he feigned a great shudder, trusting to her inexperience to cover what he was doing, and rolled off her. She turned her pale, serious face to him.

“That was not as bad as I had feared... It did not hurt much, and was not... unpleasant.” She wriggled under the covers and rolled over. Faramir found himself wanting to weep.

~o~O~o~

The next few months seemed to pass quickly. Faramir immersed himself in his duties as First Marshal of the Riddermark, the position which the Queen had reserved for him as her consort. The men under him were at first suspicious of, and antagonistic towards, this strange Gondorian interloper, seemingly benefiting from nepotism. But some knew of him by repute from their time in Minas Tirith after the siege, or through talking to Gondorian soldiers on the long march to Morannon, and were prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. Gradually, by dint of showing that he was prepared to work as hard as any man of the Mark, train as brutally as them, spar as well if not better, put himself in the way of danger, the rank and file started to warm to him. The officers found themselves won over by his undoubted tactical ability and secure grasp of strategy. And (as their Gondorian counterparts could have told them), he was a genuinely gifted leader of men, fair, honourable and courageous. Although those who made the mistake of crossing him discovered a will as unbending as iron beneath his gentle understanding nature.

Unknown to him, all this was noted by Éowyn, who kept a keen eye on his progress, both for personal reasons and more importantly (so she told herself) for the good of the Riddermark.

At nights he still did not take the initiative. He would not presume to push himself upon her, but from time to time she turned to him. And although he sensed that she did so from duty, and, as far as he could tell, still got little if any pleasure from the act, neither was there now any sense that it was abhorrent. It seemed to him that she simply saw it as another duty to be ticked off her long list.

For his part, sensing that she no longer felt distaste, he found himself no longer utterly clumsy, and even took some pleasure in their coupling. If he did not exactly see Valinor, at least he saw as far west as the Gap of Rohan. But his release, though pleasurable, was always mixed with feelings of sadness.

~o~O~o~

As befitted such a skilled strategist, Faramir felt that there had to be some plan which could help his relations with the Queen. Eventually, having ascertained that the crone was reasonably discreet, he went in search of the wise woman who assisted women with their birthing in Edoras. Armed with his new knowledge, he surprised his Queen greatly that night.

“Where are you going? Faramir... What? … There?” Her eyes opened wide.

Interrupting his cautious exploration, he paused and looked up at her. “Is this... acceptable?” he stammered.

“It is... pleasant. Yes, I...” Her voice trailed off as he returned to his task. He could hear small appreciative noises coming from his wife. But then...

“No, stop... it tickles... No more...”

Faramir wriggled up her body and lay beside her, looking into her grey eyes.

“It was... very nice. Extremely nice. To start with. Then somehow it became too much.” Éowyn looked very sad. “And yet now I feel... knotted inside... frustrated. As though something is trapped inside me, pent up, and I need to let it out, but I can’t.” 

Faramir reached out towards her. To his relief, Éowyn allowed herself to be embraced. He let out a breath, and stroked her hair.

She continued, in a shaky voice. “I want to, and yet I don't, for it started to tickle, then to feel almost painful, and just too... overwhelming. Yet it feels as if there is something… just out of reach. But I don’t know what it is. I just know that it is missing. Almost like a blind man trying to imagine colours.”

Faramir looked in horror as a tear trickled down the Queen's cheek.

“What is wrong with me?” she asked. “Even the lowliest kitchen maid seems to get pleasure from this, and yet I...”

“I fear I am but a poor lover,” Faramir said in answer. “It is not your fault, my lady, but mine.”

~o~O~o~

Faramir was no longer sure he set any store by the wise woman's advice but he had nowhere else to turn. Her advice this time was strange – or so it seemed to him initially. But she reassured him, telling him that the approach she proposed was what she would suggest to a man whose wife had recently been brought to bed of child – a woman who needed to be reassured of her husband's love, but also to know that her battered and bruised body would be given time to heal. The crone suggested he tell his wife that he would not lie with her, nor touch her intimately, either on her breasts or... there... for three months. But that he would hold her hand, and kiss her, and put his arms about her waist, and hold her close while they slept.

And for two and a half months, this is what he did. To his surprise, it seemed to pay off. Éowyn seemed to relax into his touch, to welcome his embraces, even occasionally to seek out his kisses. There came a time when she would press her whole body against him when they embraced, making soft noises like the ones she had made that one night when he had almost found a way of giving her pleasure.

And he found that her comfort in his physical presence spilled into other areas of their life. After evenings presiding over the court in the Golden Hall, they would retire to the royal chambers where Éowyn would curl up against him, either on the low sofa beside the fire or in their bed. And the two of them would simply talk. She would unburden herself of the knotty problems of governance, the complex juggling act involved in maintaining a balance between the interlocking and overlapping factions within the court and the lands outside. Her instincts were usually shrewd and sound. And to his pleasure, he found that she both sought and listened to his advice. Sometimes she accepted his opinions, sometimes she disagreed, but in the latter case, always with reason and never peremptorily.

Then, after two and a half months, they found themselves in Minas Tirith, at the celebration of the anniversary of the ending of the war. Faramir stood, at the distance dictated by protocol, watching his wife. She was resplendent in her armour, helm glinting in the sun as she paid her respects to King Elessar. He felt a pang of jealousy. He knew she had been enamoured of the King. And surely he was a man who would not prove... so wanting. Biting the inside of his cheek, he forced these thoughts away. She had told him she no longer felt anything for Aragorn, and he knew her well enough now to know she was a woman of her word.

The evening was a painful occasion. It was good to meet his comrades from the war, but he was reminded just how much he hated the political machinations of court life in Gondor. The new King held his own admirably, but there was a continual undercurrent of whispering and back-stabbing. How wise his wife's words, a year earlier, had been. In this environment there was no doubt that however well disposed towards one another he and Aragorn were, however honourably they tried to behave, eventually a rift would have been driven between them.

Finally, he was able to leave with his wife and retire to the guest quarters which had been prepared for them, guest quarters of a luxury to throw even the royal apartments in Meduseld into the shade. How quickly, Faramir reflected, one became used to a different culture. When he was growing up, he would have taken apartments such as these for granted, knowing no different. Now they seemed not just grand, but opulent beyond what was needed, decadent even.

“Husband, a goblet of wine?” He turned to see Éowyn smiling at him. “I think after this evening we both deserve and need it.”

Somehow, as with their wedding night, the whole container got drunk. But unlike their wedding night, the relief at no longer having to put on a front before the court worthies, coupled with a genuine feeling of comfort in each other's company meant that they did become rather merry. Suddenly, Éowyn leaned in and kissed him, startling him by opening her mouth and welcoming the tentative exploration of his tongue. Then (on his part with a vague drunken thought of “ _to hell with there being two more weeks to go..._ ”) Faramir found that they were both tugging at each other's clothes and tumbling onto the bed together. To his delighted surprise, her hands were roaming over his body with every bit as much urgency as his were in tracing out the curves and valleys of hers.

He discovered (with a sense of some relief) that he had consumed enough wine to slow things down, but not so much as to put a stop to proceedings entirely. And amazingly, there were unmistakable noises of pleasure coming from his wife... then with a low wailing noise, her arms tightened around his back and she buried her face in his shoulder. He felt a sensation he could not have guessed at even in his wildest imaginings, that of her muscles clenching around him in sharp spasms, before he in his turn lost the ability to think straight for the next few moments.

He rolled to one side and pulled Éowyn against his chest. She looked up at him with huge, dark eyes and just the hint of a smile. “I think,” she said cautiously, “That I may have realised what the fuss is about.” She gave him another very shy smile. “Perhaps tomorrow, you could show me what gives you pleasure.” Then her smile broadened. “And tomorrow, if you wish, perhaps you could also see what happens if you have another try at kissing me... there.”

~o~O~o~

Postscript

Queen Arwen sat at the King's right hand. As she so often did, she was wiling away the hours by gleaning a certain detached but benevolent amusement from the peculiarities of mortal behaviour on display before her.

Today offered a rare and delightful treat. Overnight, something dramatic seemed to have changed in the way the Queen of Rohan and her Prince Consort interacted with one another.  When they thought no-one was looking, Arwen caught them exchanging shy smiles. Then it struck her that in fact the situation was even funnier than she had a first realised - it was not that they exchanged them when they thought no-one else was looking. They were, she thought to herself, actually unaware that they were smiling - they merely caught one another's eye from time to time, and the smiles were a purely involuntary reaction. " _How delicious,_ " she thought, " _Married a year, sharing a bed for six months now, and finally, they decide to start to fall in love with one another. How bizarre mortals are. Always doing things back to front and topsy turvey._ " 

Then yet another thought struck her - neither was quite aware of what was happening. As yet, neither one realised what their own feelings were, much less those of the other party. She settled down to watch. Perhaps today's trade negotiations would be more entertaining than she had expected.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to QueefQueen, for the use of the "sandpit" and also for very constructive comments and suggestions. Also thanks to Sian22 and Lady Peter for looking over this and giving many helpful hints.
> 
> The phrase “How delicious,” may sound a bit un-Tolkien-esque, but I actually lifted that pretty much verbatim from the elves of Rivendell in the Hobbit.


End file.
